


Like Cops and Robbers

by paigecruz



Category: Ao Haru Ride
Genre: Birthday, Blushing, F/M, Fluff, Hurt, Jealousy, Koutaba, Koutaba week, Oneshot, Protect, Rain, Romance, Support, Touch, change, kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-25 17:40:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1656854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paigecruz/pseuds/paigecruz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of fluffy one shots about our favorite duo dancing around each other (much to our chagrin) all in the name of Koutaba Week on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bullseye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 1: Blushing.
> 
> You can also read this at [ff.net](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10361443/1/Like-Cops-and-Robbers) or on[tumblr](http://pipayyy.tumblr.com/post/86220802954/bullseye).
> 
> AU where Kou and Futaba are childhood friends.
> 
> I'll have you know that I searched just about everywhere and the kitchen sink looking for the correct spelling of this fic's title. Apparently, this one is acceptable, even if MS Word begs to disagree.

“Hey Kou, did you know that Kikuchi-kun blushes real easily?”

Kou blinks in surprise at the statement and glances sharply to where Futaba is sprawled on the bed, her Chemistry notes in hand. He sits up straight and waits for her to continue, but she just lays there, her fringe sticking up in different directions and her tawny eyes skimming from side to side while she chews on the eraser end of a pencil, and in the back of his mind, he cannot help thinking how lovely she is.

(Another part of him is also suggesting non-PG thoughts about how she is ON HIS BED, but he snuffs them out with a vengeance.)

Slowly lowering his pen to the desk, he swivels around and rests his chin on his hand.

“Okay?”  He prompts.

“Oh yeah. Just one of the things I noticed when we were dating.” She turns a page. “You comment on his hair or hold his hand or talk about the weather, and poof! He turns into a cherry tomato for the rest of the day.”

Kou can’t help snorting at this piece of information—or _blackmail_ , as he likes to call it. He’d noticed her ex-boyfriend’s unique tendency during one of his spying escapades (“It’s just a precaution.” He held his hands up defensively this one time she caught him in the act. “Gotta make sure there’s no funny business going on when you two are out on the streets at night. _Together_. You know, just you and him. _Alone_.”) Anyway, that boy would light up like a 1000 megawatt neon sign if she would so much as stand in the same room as him.

Poor boy was smitten. Too bad there's only room for _one_ man in her life—even if that position's labeled as “BEST FRIEND”.

A wry smirk forms on his lips as he regards her with amused eyes. “Futaba, I’m pretty sure that if I did any of those things with mushroom he—I mean, Kikuchi, he’d be red in the face—for his want to send me to an early grave, that is.”

She giggles in response, the light peal of her laughter echoing around his room. Something flutters at the pit of his stomach.

He shakes his head and returns to his math sheet, picking up his pen and punching some numbers into a calculator. “With _you_ , on the other hand, his whole body would flush and he’d be all hot and bothered with this mad desire to jump yo—OW!”

He slaps a hand to the side of his head where she nearly impaled him with a pencil. Futaba sends him an almost apologetic look and proceeds to inspect her nails. “Whoops, it slipped.”

As her best friend, he taught her how to defend herself against all kinds of bad guys. His tutelage also sort of included how to aim and throw remotely sharp objects at people.

He rolls his eyes and mutters under his breath, “Slipped, my ass.”

“And my, what a _cute_ ass, you have.”

His hand slips, dragging his pen across the worksheet in a jagged, inky mess as his ears perk up at her crass comment. A familiar heat burns in his cheeks. Cursing silently, he scrambles for a new sheet, and then bows his head and grips the pen harder, a newfound desire to finish the problem set coursing through his veins.

 _Bullseye_.

Futaba watches her best friend fondly from her perch on the bed, her lips stretched into a grin.

It turns out Kikuchi’s not the only one with a blushing problem where Yoshioka Futaba is concerned.

 


	2. Sick Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 2: Protect or Support. A fire starts where his hands come and go. OR Futaba is cranky and Kou has magic hands.
> 
> You can also read this at [ff.net](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10361443/2/Like-Cops-and-Robbers) or on [tumblr](http://pipayyy.tumblr.com/post/86383143789/sick-day).
> 
> Warning: Swearing ahead. If you’re below, oh I don’t know, thirteen years old, I suggest you don’t repeat anything you read here in front of your parents.
> 
> Also, I wrote this in random bits and pieces during various lectures, so they might not transition well. Not all women react this way to that time of the month either, but I’ve had my fair share of fits and cramps, so I hope nobody takes offense.

There is a boy in her room.

Futaba freezes mid-stretch, hyperaware of the bird's nest that is her hair and the stale taste in her mouth and the frayed threads of her pajamas. And while every other fiber of her being is seeing red and screaming for him to get his (cute) ass out of her bedroom, a tiny, giddy, stupidly hormonal one percent is bouncing off the walls because  _good lord_ , her stupid, gorgeous boyfriend with his soulful, grey eyes and floppy half-perm is in her room  _without_  adult supervision.

And then her uterus chooses that moment to act up. She growls.

" _What the fuck are you doing here?_ "

* * *

His traitorous feet have fallen asleep.

Kou stands rooted to the spot, feeling every bit like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. His knuckles are turning white from the death grip he has on the doorknob, though his cheeks are burning from the sight before him—her usually impeccable hair is sticking up at different angles, her eyes are crusty and swollen from sleep, and— _is that drool on her face_?

He snorts, and then chokes on his own spit at the strip of smooth, pale skin from where her shirt has ridden up, and it takes a couple of heartbeats before he realizes that he's been staring.

His eyes jump back up to meet hers, watches those stunned ovals of hazel narrow into feral slits, and Kou thinks that he has never been so scared in his life.

 

* * *

“ _What the fuck are you doing here?”_

He starts at her words, and has to blink twice to make sure that,  _yes_ , he’s got the right house, and  _yes_ , his girlfriend, the petite brunette who flushes at his every touch and has a heart of pure gold, just swore at him.

He chooses his words carefully.

“So your mom let me in,” he starts pathetically before slapping a hand to his forehead. ‘ _Smooth, Kou. Real smooth_ ,’ he chides. Futaba does not move from her position, just watches him with wary eyes.

He swallows a lump in his throat. “You weren’t at school today, and you weren’t replying to my messages either. So I came to, you know, check up on you, ‘cause that’s what boyfriends do, right? Haha, yeah…” He pauses to scratch the back of his neck. “Your mom said you were sleeping, which you obviously were. You… you’ve got some drool on your cheek.”

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he knows that he's stepped on a landmine, and in the back of his mind, Kou finally learns the meaning of the word, 'tact'.

She shrieks, yanking her shirt down and reaching blindly for whatever ammunition she can throw at him. Kou holds his hands up defensively and sputters apologies here and there, but they fall on deaf ears. His grunts of frustration tell her she's hit her mark, and she rises from her bed, relentless in her efforts to pelt him with pillows and stuffed toys and other fluffy materials.

He lets her.

It is only when her fingers close around her ( _very solid_ )  _Ramune_  alarm clock that he surges forward in panic, and Futaba manages to thump her head against his before they both fall back on the mattress, with Kou hovering above her as he pins her wrists above her head.

On any other day, this would have been enough to get her tongue-tied and flustered, but not today.

Today, her emotions are off the roof as another wave of cramps rolls over her body, and all she wants to do is crawl underneath her covers and cry herself to sleep. Or maybe vent out her frustrations by shouting Kou’s ears off.

She goes with the latter.

"Get the fuck off of me, you… you big seaweed head!"

Kou groans into her pillow, his head spinning from the impact of their foreheads and the string of profanities that she's hissing into his ear. It takes just about all of his strength to hold himself over her as she continues spouting on some choice words about his monkey ears and the bags underneath his eyes and his stupid man muscles, and he wonders, ' _What on earth is going on?_ ' A measly three weeks of dating the girl of his dreams couldn't have prepared him for this.

"Listen here, Mabuchi Kou. You will let me go right this instant or I fucking swear I'll fucking claw your eyes out and shove them up your cute little—"

"All right, Yoshioka," he talks over her in what he hopes is a reassuring voice, "I need you to calm down. Now drop the bunny clock and then we'll talk abou—OOF!" Kou grunts as her foot connects with his gut, and he loses his grip on her; Futaba takes the opportunity to twist out of his hands. Once she’s free, she shoves at his chest with all her might, and he lands in a heap on the floor.

“And stay there!”

* * *

 

There are three things Kou realizes during his time on Futaba’s bedroom floor.

One, there is a tender lump growing at the back of his head, and probably another one on his forehead. He reaches up to rub the bumps, wincing as they ache underneath his touch. Kominato would probably wet himself laughing once he got wind of this. An eighteen year old guy getting beat up by his ailing girlfriend?

_Hilarious._

Two, he is lying in a litter of her paraphernalia, from clothes and books to stuffed toys and used tissues. A few years back, he discovered Futaba’s guise of acting like a complete slob if only to ward off potential admirers. He never really understood her obsession to keep the boys at bay. Her tactics never worked, either way. She was just too damn  _adorable_  for her own good.

It seems, though, that the habit had never entirely worn off. He recognizes her school bag lying beside him, its contents spilled and scattered about. Her closet doors are ajar, clothes askew on their hangers and an assortment of bags and shoes peeking out from the drawers.

He suspects that the place might have been a bit more…  _presentable_  if she would’ve known he was coming. He certainly wouldn’t stand to entertain the love of his life in a room that showcased his deepest and darkest flaws. But then again, they  _did_  decide to be honest to each other now that they were dating. Perhaps this was Futaba keeping her end of the bargain.

He removes a piece of clothing from his hair, instantly flushing and flicking the thing away when he realizes that he’s just touched his girlfriend’s camisole.

Next time he visits, he’ll bring along a vacuum cleaner and run this place spotless. He smiles in spite of himself.

His next realization wipes the smirk off his face.

Futaba is crying.

On hearing her sniffle once or twice, he sits up in alarm. His vision blurs for a moment from getting up too fast. He sways for a couple of seconds before the blood returns to his head, and he looks over to where his girl is curled up on her side, her face pressed against a pillow as she sniffs and hiccups.

Concerned and bewildered, he opens his mouth to call her name, but no words come out. What on earth is he supposed to say? ‘ _Are you okay?_ ’ ‘ _Fucking_ peachy _, thank you very much_ ,’ he imagines she’d snarl.

But then she whimpers again, and he springs into action, reaching a tentative hand to her shoulder. She flinches at his touch.

"Just go away!" she shouts, but then her voice cracks into a sob, and then another, and then suddenly she is full-out crying, turning her back to him and pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes.

Something tugs at his chest.

Kou does not think, just crawls over to her side and circles an arm around her despite her protests. He runs his fingers through her hair, speaking in hushed tones and wiping tears from her face. She tries to move away, squirming and pushing against his chest, but his hold is firm. Finally, she gives in and twists in his arms, burying her face into his shirt, trembling.

Kou pulls her against him and moves a hand up and down her back. He hesitates a moment before pressing his mouth to the top of her head, a silent question burning on his lips.

She catches on.

"I… It's been hurting all day. I couldn't get out of bed, and I couldn't go back to sleep. It just won't go away," she cries. Kou draws back a little, tips her chin up with his thumb and brushes her hair from her face so that he's looking straight into her eyes.

"Where does it hurt?"

Futaba clenches her teeth before taking his hand from her face and leading it towards her stomach; Kou nearly withdraws when his hand discovers skin, but reins in his nerves and allows himself this touch.

He takes a deep breath, and then another.

 _Soft_.

' _She is so soft_ ,' he thinks.

* * *

‘ _He is so warm_ ,’ she thinks.

Futaba has half a mind to fall asleep right there and then as she nuzzles his neck. ‘ _And he smells glorious, too._ ’

Then reality hits her, and she reddens. How could she have allowed him to see her in this state of undress, and in her bed, to boot? Her mother would throw a fit if she saw them together like this.

‘ _But… this doesn’t_ feel _bad,_ ’ her giddy one percent reasons.

Futaba almost laughs, thinking that this is the closest they’ve been yet. Why, this morning, she was just about ready to denounce her own sex for all the bad tidings—and cramps—it brought. But if it meant discovering the analgesic effect of her boyfriend’s hands as they worked magic on her—well, perhaps it was worth all the trouble.

She sighs in contentment as his hands linger, but all too quickly, they inch up and lift completely away from her. She whimpers in protest, hearing him chuckle in reply.

A second later, she is lying on her side, and he is settled behind her, her back fitted against the hard plane of his chest. She notices the kindling heat of his palms which press gently but steadily over her abdomen, feels the rough pads of his thumbs as they wander and rub soothing circles over her skin.

A fire starts where his hands come and go. She covers them with her own, admiring the contrast between their skin.

"All right?" He mouths against her ear.

She does not speak, just squeezes his hands in return.

' _One, two, three, four_ ,' she counts the cycles he makes with his thumb, notices how he switches to counterclockwise on the eighth count, and back again on the sixteenth; the lazy pattern almost lulls her to sleep.

"Kou, you idiot," she mumbles into her pillow, but then, his body is warm and the deep ache in her tummy has gone.

All is silent but for the sounds of their breathing. Futaba closes her eyes, the smile on her face refusing to go away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. Didn't know if I should classify this as Protect/Support or Touch.
> 
> P.P.S. In case you haven't noticed, I have a thing for Futaba admiring Kou's... assets. MEHEHEHE.


	3. Monsoon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 3: Rain. Futaba was never much of an adrenaline junkie until he came around.
> 
> You can also read this at [ff.net](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10361443/3/Like-Cops-and-Robbers) or on [tumblr](http://pipayyy.tumblr.com/post/86478911479/monsoon).

Kissing Mabuchi Kou is like finding herself in the middle of a thunderstorm—she closes her eyes, and the world seems to disappear into a different kind of chaos, a cacophony of heat and cold and want and color. With Kou, everything is ridiculously intimate that she sometimes forgets that they are too young.

She loves the thrill of it.

He is subtle at first—a few furtive glances here and there, or the accidental brush of his arm against hers as they walk side by side to school. As the day progresses, however, he gets bolder, slipping an arm around her waist and pressing a kiss or two onto her temple for the entire world to see.

His actions are short and simple, innocent enough to garner a giggle or a roll of the eye from the gang or unknowing passerby; little do they know the havoc they wreak on Futaba’s self-control.

Dusk is just falling, thunder rolling in the distance, when they start their trek home.

He has kept her on her toes all day, sending her playful glances and light touches every now and then. Her head is filled with thoughts of the memory of his hands and the secrets in his smile, making her desperate for the real thing. Any moment now, she expects him to strike and have his way with her, but he keeps to himself. This lack of contact is grates on her nerves.

She grabs his hand and pulls him along towards the shelter of a tree when the first drops begin to fall.

He smiles at her knowingly, unabashed as he walks her backwards into the tree. ‘ _Finally_ ,’ she thinks as she closes her eyes in anticipation, swiping her tongue quickly on her bottom lip and taking a deep breath.

A couple of seconds pass with only the wind meeting her lips, and her forehead wrinkles in confusion.

She opens her eyes and raises her head, sees the soft smile gracing his lips and the scarlet coloring the tips of his ears and the rain dripping from his unkempt hair, and there and then, she cannot help thinking just how handsome he is.

And then she spots a glint in his stormy eyes, and something inside her snaps as she drags him down by the collar, her hands frantic in their search for skin. She struggles to take hold of the hem of his damp shirt, pushing it up to reveal the hard planes underneath, warm and taut to the touch.

A sensible part of her wonders at his cunning, and how he would never let her live this down.

His next actions drive any and all comprehensible thoughts away.

He ducks his head into the crook of her neck, nipping and teasing as he grips her lightly by the hips. She starts when he bites down on a particularly sensitive spot, hands flying from his chest to seek purchase in the tangle of his hair.

“Kou,” she breathes shakily, almost pleading. He groans her name into the shell of her ear, his voice laced raw with want, drawing her closer before finally touching his mouth to hers.

A shock shoots down her spine, the sting of rain and the heat of his mouth mingling and making her toes curl, and she jumps on the balls of her feet in an effort to bring her body closer to his. Kou seems to have a better idea, and bends down to hook his arms under her knees and lift her up swiftly. There is a pop of lips as she gasps in surprise, her face burning at the sudden change in position. He grins at her, very much resembling a Cheshire cat with a bunch of tricks up his sleeve.

She shakes her head and wraps her legs more securely around his waist, trying to ignore the racing of her pulse when a hand brushes lightly on her thigh. Her heart thrums in rhythm to the falling rain as she traces the boyish angles of his face, taking note of the circles under his eyes and the freckles faintly dusting his cheeks.

“You need sleep,” she tells him, her voice dropping to a whisper. Thunder clamors overhead and the rain splatters noisily at his feet, but he hears her loud and clear. He smiles slightly in response, rubbing his nose against hers.

“I can’t sleep, love. Not when you’re on my mind twenty-four, seven,” he says cheekily and receives a sharp tug in the hair in return. He laughingly obliges her request and closes the gap once more.

They are fire and ice, a jumble of want and need; she shivers, curls a sure arm around his neck, and burrows her fingers into his hair while he moves them away from the tree and kisses her directly underneath the downpour, and in that moment, Futaba is completely certain that this is love.

* * *

Hours later, she lies awake beneath her covers, her body still remembering the whirlwind of heat and hands and lips and his scent like air after the rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confession: I just really wanted them to kiss, man. I mean, COME ON, look at all that tension just waiting to be released.


	4. Snitch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 4: Touch.
> 
> You can also read this at [ff.net](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10361443/4/Like-Cops-and-Robbers) or on [tumblr](http://pipayyy.tumblr.com/post/86577797609/snitch).
> 
> This is set right after chapter 40, on their bus ride home.
> 
> P.S. My mojo is running dry. Help.

It’s the little things he remembers the most.

_The scent of her shampoo (vanilla and strawberries) as they duck under the window sill. Her weight on his back, a reassuring presence as he carries her downhill. The color of her nails, dainty and delicate in his fingers. The way her lashes flutter when he leans in to kiss her._

_The curves of each character as he scratches her name carefully into a notebook. The way she sneaks a whiff at his nape when she thinks he isn’t looking. The look on her face as she runs to him with all she’s got._

The bus hits a bump on the road and jolts him awake. He groans a little, bending his head from side to side in an effort to relieve the crick on his neck (Kominato’s been leaning on him for the past hour, the big dork).

A quiet chuckle catches his attention and he turns to where the girl in question is curled up in her seat, her phone pressed to her ear, pink lips turned up in a small smile.

He is surprised to see her awake at this time; when asleep, an earthquake could rock the highway, and she’d be none the wiser, content in her dream world. He watches her finger a silver pendant, another boy’s name etched onto the smooth surface.

His heart clenches.

He sucks in a breath and faces forward, frowning. He recalls all the moments missed, wonders if only he’d been honest with her… would she be tracing _his_ name right now?

He lets out a sigh and rakes a hand through his tangled hair, trying to disperse the depressing thoughts. He mulls over the effect she has on him, the way his body reacts to her every touch, how he feels lighter, stronger when she is around, and how, just a few moons ago, she too held a torch for him.

A flare of resolution passes over his face. It’s his turn now, and he’s decided he’ll take the gamble and run to her with everything to lose.

Yes, it's selfish of him, but he swears he’ll make her remember, and when she does, he’ll snatch her back and never let her go.


	5. Bento

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 5: Jealousy
> 
> You can also read this at [ff.net](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10361443/5/Like-Cops-and-Robbers) or on [tumblr](http://pipayyy.tumblr.com/post/86706035404/bento).
> 
> Disclaimer: Lyrics aren't mine, obviously.
> 
> I totally mixed up the prompts for day 5 and 6. This was kind of a last minute thing.

“You never call me cute.”

“…What?”

“I said you never call me cute.”

Kou looks up from his lunch, his juice box hanging in midair. He takes a hesitant sip, feels the cool liquid slide down his throat. He gulps uneasily. “I never thought I needed to. You already know how I feel about you.”

Futaba rolls her eyes and straightens in her seat, fixing the pleats on her skirt as she does. “Well, yeah, but you always coo at your cat, saying how much of a cutie it is,” she points out.

He puts his juice down. “My cat _is_ adorable. What is your point?” He fixes her with a curious look.

She shrugs, plucks off a chunk of his bread and pops it into her mouth. “I’m just saying that you never miss a beat giving your pet these endearments every day, but with me, it’s like, once in a blue moon or none at all.”

He chuckles, pushing the rest of his bread towards her. Futaba eagerly attacks it. A fond look crosses his face. “You’re jealous, aren’t you?”

“What? No!” She half-exclaims, half-chews.

‘ _Yup, definitely jealous_ ,’ he thinks. “Babe, I think you’re plenty cute. Happy now?”

“No, now it feels like you’re just saying it to appease me!”

“Okay, how about this then?” He forgoes his lunch altogether and reaches across the adjoined desks for her hand. A tingle starts where her fingers rest on his skin, and scarlet starts to stain his cheeks. He tries to keep a straight face as he boldly declares, “You’re not cute.”

Futaba draws back, her jaw dropping. “Well, _thank you very much_ _for being honest_ , you big tur—” he claps a hand over her mouth, and now it’s his turn to roll his eyes. “I’m not finished,” he says. She narrows her eyes at him before gesturing to his hand. He responds by tucking her hair behind her ear.

“You’re not cute. No, you—you’re fucking _beautiful_. I’d say sorry for swearing, but I’m not,” he admits before she can protest. He has this nostalgic look about him, gets up to slide into the seat right next to her. By this time, people start to notice the commotion and stop their current pastimes to watch.

Futaba flusters in her seat.

“You _were cute_ —like, five years ago, when we were in junior high playing cops and robbers and you had this look about you as you tried to tag me out. Remember? No, I wasn’t making fun of you then, and I’m not doing it now either. Now you’re—I can’t even begin to tell you what I wouldn’t do for you.” He pauses, places an arm around the back of her chair. His eyelids flutter closed as he leans his forehead against hers. “You’re like a cop. You’re my hero. Yeah, you’re annoying sometimes, and you always steal my consommé chips, but you’re always saving me. You give me shit when I’m slacking off or going somewhere… _bad_. And dark. Yeah, that must be it. You’re light. My light.”

He is looking at her now, as in _really looking_ at her with these eyes of piercing, molten silver. She feels a smile coming on. “ _You are sunlight and I, moon, joined by the gods of fortune, midnight and high noon sharing the sky_.”

Their classmates surround their table, hooting and catcalling and making kissy faces and other gestures, but Kou is all she sees. Futaba has a hard time finding her voice, and when she does, she settles for just one word.

“Well.”

Kou laughs, sneaks a peck on her cheek as he says, “How’s that for a confession, huh?”

“Pretty impressive, I must admit. Honest. Poetic, even.”

“Good! Good,” he replies, looking pretty smug with his chest puffed out as he nods at peers who clap him in the back in passing. She allows him a few seconds of triumph and returns to her bento.

“You totally ripped off Miss Saigon though, you arse.”

“Yeah, well, love you too.”


	6. Festival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> KOUTABA WEEK DAY 6: Hurt
> 
> Futaba finally goes on a festival date while all Kou can do is watch. OR A play on the red string of fate.
> 
>    
> You can also read this at [ff.net](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10361443/6/Like-Cops-and-Robbers) or on [tumblr](http://pipayyy.tumblr.com/post/86765987254/festival).

_Legend has it that when two people are meant to be, the gods bind them together with a cord wrought from the strongest magic. Even the hardest of hearts succumb to its power, and nothing, neither fire nor storm, can ever break it._

-

_7 o’clock. Sankaku Park, by the clock._

The words ring in his ears, loud and clear as if he has just uttered them into a megaphone.

Kou glances at the clock, watches the hour hand crawl its way towards the number seven before resuming his lookout for a certain brunette. He fingers the thin crimson string hanging limp on his little finger.

‘ _She’s late_ ,’ he thinks nervously while he scuffs the bottom of his shoe against the cobblestones, contemplating the growing dark around him. Despite the sweltering summer, the sun seems to have made an early retreat, and the first of many stars are beginning to peek out from behind wispy clouds.

The clock reels in his gaze like a magnet, the grinding of its gears magnified. Time is running.

A furrow appears on his brows. He wishes he still had a cellular phone on him, if only to give her a dozen or so messages and badger her with calls until she picks up.

(She’ll probably toss her phone in shock upon seeing the caller ID, but hey, he’ll take his chances.)

 He worries his bottom lip and grunts in frustration before deciding that it’s time to widen his search. He leaves his post by the clock tower and weaves through the mass of people in his path. He heads in the opposite direction, a trail of red thread guiding him towards the park’s entrance.

Lanterns light the street, their warm glow drawing an eclipse of moths. Couples walk by holding hands, the girls in summery  _yukatas_ , nibbling on fairy floss and candied apples, and the boys, flicking paper fans at their faces in an attempt to beat the heat. A group of teenagers swarm around a booth, howling in laughter. In a corner, a child wails over a scraped knee while his mother kneels down to his level and tends to the wound. On either side of the street, vendors showcase their ware in peculiar dialects, their voices competing over the songs of the cicadas in the background.

 _Loud_. It is all too loud, and he feels himself fading away amidst the happy chaos.

‘ _NO! Not now, not yet_ ,’ he cries.

He hurries his pace, stumbles through the throng of people until he reaches the gates of the park.

He looks around, nearly suffocating in the sea of color and laughter, when there is a sharp pull on his finger. The string is stretched taut to his right.

A warning bell sounds, signaling five to seven.

He pivots on his heel, a gasp caught in his throat.

She steps through the crowd, donning her  _yukata_  like she was born to wear it. Every curve of her body is outlined by the crisp, pastel-colored cloth, an intricate pattern of cherry blossoms adorning its length. It cinches at the waist with a bright orange sash, offsetting the light shades with a pop of color. Her brown locks are piled into a simple bun with a butterfly pin holding them in place. A few loose strands frame her face, highlighting the pink in her cheeks and the light in her eyes.

‘ _Beautiful_ ,’ he wants to tell her, watches her lips move in awe as she takes in the sights and sounds.

It has been a long time coming and  _finally_ , she returns to the summer festival with the love of her life. His eyes wander from her smile to the hand connected to hers; he notices a slight ache in his chest as he considers the boy who has taken his place.

He is taller than he remembers, his head almost coming up to her hips, and there is a whimsical look on his face. His black hair is dark and rumpled, refusing to cooperate when he runs a hand through it unconsciously. He bounces on the balls of his feet, his smiling eyes a carbon copy of his mother’s.

“Oh man, I wish daddy were here to see this!” He chatters excitedly. “Hey mommy, what time is it? Is it seven already? We’ve got to hurry and find the clock!”

A soft look crosses her face and she nods in agreement, tightening her hold on the little boy’s hand.

“Yes, yes. Come along, sweetie. Uncle and aunty said they’ll be by the benches, so we wouldn’t want to keep them waiting, now would we?” She says gently. He shuffles forward after her, exclaiming at the different attractions.

Kou holds perfectly still as they come towards him. The red string feels tighter around his finger, almost cuts through the skin as they close the distance.

His lips part in needless breath, and just when they are within an arm’s reach, he calls her name out to the wind.

They walk past him.

Kou stares at the ground they had just occupied, feels a hollow in his chest where his heart should be, feels that hollow expand, a shadow that threatens to swallow him whole.

She cannot see him.

She cannot  _see_  him.

“Kou?”

His head snaps up and he cranes his neck towards the sound of her voice, a silent plea in his eyes.

‘ _Please see me._ ’

Futaba stares at the space where Kou stands, squints and blinks and shakes her head to make sure that she isn’t dreaming because she could’ve sworn that she just heard someone— _someone_ —call her name. 

An idea pops into his head. Kou acts quickly, takes the cord in his hands, starts reining in its length. Handful after handful, he pulls, and though dirty and knotted in different places, the thread has not frayed. 

She takes a step towards him.

She cannot explain it. She feels compelled to move by an invisible force, and maybe it is the heat, but she thinks she can just make out the outline of shaggy hair and a hopeful smile. His name forms on her lips.

"Kou."

Slowly, surely, the centimeters shrink until they are so close that he can hear the spirit of her pulse. He hardly thinks when he stoops down to press his lips onto hers. 

It is feather-light, a small breeze of a touch, but she shivers and he tastes her sweetness.

He pulls back.

Her eyes glaze over at the empty spot and something constricts in her throat. She absently rubs a thumb over her little finger.

Her son tugs on her hand and looks up at her quizzically. “Mommy, what’s wrong?” He asks.

Tears spring in her eyes, but Futaba blinks them away before her boy can see. She takes a shaky breath, bends down to press a kiss atop his head and urges him on. “Nothing, just thought I saw someone familiar. Come on, Haru, let’s go find that clock tower. Daddy’s probably looking over the clouds right now, wondering what’s taking us so long!”

Haru grins and pulls her along. The pair strolls past him, laughing and chatting animatedly.

Kou laughs, and it comes out as a sob, but he is still smiling. He watches their retreating backs, feels a final tug on his pinky as they disappear into the crowd. The earth vanishes at his feet.

_The clock strikes seven._


	7. Double Takes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 7: Change
> 
> You can also read this at [ff.net](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10361443/7/Like-Cops-and-Robbers) or on [tumblr](http://pipayyy.tumblr.com/post/86872788164/double-takes).

“You cut your hair.”

Kou starts, banging his head on the shoe locker. He winces, dropping the white indoor shoes on the floor in his haste to hold the back of his head tenderly. “No shit,” he mutters, sending an icy glare Kominato’s way as he steps into his shoes.

The blond boy seems undeterred, walks over to his best friend and slaps his hands down the sides of his face for a closer inspection, turning it this way and that. Gone is his shaggy half-perm; the sides are closely shaven, exposing his ears and emphasizing the slope of his jaw. His fringe hangs neatly above his eyebrows and over his forehead for the first time in years. Kou colors at the proximity.

“What the fu—geroff mm!” Kou exclaims, shoving him roughly away. “Dude, what’s gotten into you?”

He brushes himself off, still disbelieving. “You cut your hair,” he states simply.

Kou rubs a hand over his face in exasperation. “Your perceptual skills are astounding, Kominato, but your vocabulary? Not so much,” he drawls as he hefts his school bag over his shoulder. He heads down the corridor, not waiting for him to follow.

“So why’d you do it?” Kominato persists, easily falling into step beside him.

Kou looks at him from the corners of his eyes, weighing his options. If he lies and tells him that the hair gets into his eyes or some other lame excuse, the guy will probably keep pestering him about it like the nosy little shit he is (he swears that’s a term of endearment, if guys do that kind of thing) until he cracks. Or maybe until Kou breaks his nose.

Then and there, he decides that he doesn’t want to be friendless for the rest of junior year and gives in.

“It’s for Yoshioka.”

He speaks so quietly that Kominato almost misses it— _almost_. In an instant, enlightenment dawns in his eyes while his whole face flushes bright red like  _he’s_  embarrassed. Kou leaves him alone to his epiphany.

They walk in amiable silence for about five seconds before the blond bursts, “You  _love_  her.”

Kou punches him in the shoulder in reply.

“No, seriously, Kou, I’m so proud of you! Although I question your methods ‘cause you can’t just win back her heart by cutting your hair and trying to be the cool and refreshing  _Tanaka-kun_ , now I see that you’re finally stepping up your game since you’re so whip—”

“Don’t say it.”

“But Kou, you—”

“I said, don’t say it!”

“Say what?”

They whip their heads towards the source of the voice; Kominato blurts out a quick “Nothing!”, covers his mouth with a hand, and actually  _giggles_  before sidling off into the classroom, leaving the pair alone. Kou is livid, muttering a string of curses in his head as he faces the girl with trepidation.

Yoshioka looks perfect as always. Hell, she can wear nothing but a potato sack for all that matters and he’ll still think she’s the prettiest girl he’s ever seen. He watches the way her hazel eyes widen, sees the almost imperceptible pink in the apples of her cheeks as she takes in the change in his appearance. She cocks her head to the side.

He tugs on his bangs self-consciously, suddenly feeling stupid. So he cut his hair. It doesn’t mean she’ll drop her  _boyfriend_ (he spits out the "title" in distaste—mentally, of course) in favor of him just because he looks  _exactly_  like her first love. ‘ _Well, technically, I_ am _her first love, but what the hell—!”_ His internal monologue falls short when Yoshioka echoes Kominato’s earlier statement.

“You cut your hair.”

He bites back a snarky remark because this is  _Yoshioka_ he’s dealing with. The beating of his heart intensifies, the  _lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub_  booming like a bass drum in his ears, and he swears that she can’t possibly  _not_  know that this—this ridiculous haircut, the first of  _many_  changes—is all for her.

There is a pause before Yoshioka realizes that she’s been staring, and she squeaks, “Y-you… you look good!” and promptly turns on her heel, rushing to her seat and dipping her head into her arms.

Kou hiccups, shell-shocked; in his periphery, he sees Kominato give him a thumbs-up. Classmates notice him standing in the doorway and comment on the change. “Looking sharp, Mabuchi!” or “Wow, Mabuchi-kun, it really suits you!” says peers whose names he can’t really remember right now because his heart rate still hasn’t slowed, and  _‘What was that? What on earth was that?!_ ’

He mumbles a quiet thanks and makes his way to his desk, feeling more than one pair of eyes bear down his back.

* * *

Halfway through homeroom, the ruckus over his haircut dies down. Nonetheless, Kou doesn’t miss the way Yoshioka peeks at him curiously, averts her eyes when he catches her gaze, and looks back again, twisting her hair around her chin in a roundabout way that makes him want to jump up and kiss her, and he thinks that maybe,  _just maybe_ , cutting his hair wasn’t such a bad idea after all.


	8. Gesundheit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 8: Kou’s Birthday
> 
> Kou is down with the common cold. Luckily, Futaba has the perfect remedy.
> 
> You can also read this at [ff.net](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10361443/8/Like-Cops-and-Robbers) or on [tumblr](http://pipayyy.tumblr.com/post/86979616144/gesundheit).
> 
> Warning: slightly suggestive themes ahead.

“I think I’m dying.”

It comes out as more of a gurgle than anything else, but Futaba’s known him long enough to be able to decipher the meaning. She knows she shouldn’t laugh, but she can’t help the giggle that escapes her lips at the state that Kou’s found himself in. In fact, he does look quite close to asphyxiating to death, what with all the pillows and blankets he’s buried himself with.

She pads across the room to his bedside and flicks him on the forehead. “Oh quit whining, you big baby. It’s just a cold.”

Kou scoffs weakly, and then sneezes. He attempts to sit up amidst the pile of comforters atop his chest, reaching for the box of tissues on his bedside. “ _Excuse me_ , _I’m_ the one with snot clogging up my lungs and gasping for breath over here!”

“Well, if you have the energy to sass me like that, then I think you’re just fine,” Futaba argues simply and reaches into her bag to fish out a digital thermometer. As she takes his temperature, Kou mumbles through the device, “This is the worst birthday ever.”

The girl laughs and gently brushes the hair from his eyes. The thermometer beeps.

She takes the device from his mouth, squinting at the small screen. “Hmm. Looks like your fever hasn’t broken in yet. I’ll go fetch a fresh towel, so why don’t you get some sleep, hm?”

He looks up at her with twinkling eyes and wiggles his eyebrows. “Why don’t you join me?”

She smiles at him sweetly before smacking a pillow to his face.

* * *

“Futaba, heeeeelp.”

“Okay, what is it now?” She calls out from the other room.

“My head _hurts_ ,” Kou whines in answer.

“I’ll be right there.”

Kou sticks a curious ear against the paper-thin walls. There is a rustling sound like clothes being folded and put away. A few moments pass before he gets restless.

“Futaba,” he moans.

No answer.

“Futaba!”

A clink of tableware. The rush of water from a faucet.

“FUTABAAAA-CHAAAA—”

The door bangs open. “WHAT?!” 

Kou blinks twice.

His girlfriend stands in his doorway, clad in the same maid outfit from many cultural festivals ago. A simple apron hangs down the front of her dress, which billows from the waist and ends just right above her knees. Creamy white stockings cover the length of her legs, and a lacy headband adorns the top of her head.

There is a buzzing sound in his head as he struggles to form coherent thoughts. The way her body curves beneath her clothes makes his mouth dry and his temperature shoot up.

“Like what you see?” She says coyly, toting a tray of food with her.

Kou feigns dizziness, falling back against the pillows with a loud thump. Futaba rushes to him in alarm. She sets the tray on his bedside table and touches a hand to his cheek. “Shi—Kou! Are you all right? Was this too much? It’s too much, isn’t it? Gosh, this is so stupid,” she mutters rapidly as she fusses over him.

“Futaba…” He coughs, his eyes scrunched closed in pain as he takes shallow, ragged breaths.

She hovers over him worriedly, fixing the blankets on his chest. “Yes? Is there anything I can do?”

His eyelids pop open. “Well, since you asked… my mouth hurts from all the sneezing and coughing I’ve been doing. Maybe you can kiss it better.”

There is a pregnant pause in which Futaba stares at him blankly, her jaw hanging open a few centimeters. Kou wants to laugh but pouts instead, jutting out a quivering lower lip and fluttering his lashes at her. There is an audible click of the jaw as she closes her mouth, and a slow smile creeps over her lips.  “Hmm…”

She rests her hands on either side of his face, her pupils blown wide and trained on his. Her hair falls over her shoulders, and his senses are overwhelmed by the sudden scent of her, like vanilla extract and ripening strawberries ready for harvesting. A knot forms in the back of his throat.

She descends slowly, the tip of her nose brushing against his. She diverts from his mouth, her own coming to a stop by the cartilage of his right ear, her breath hot where her lips press against the skin. He shivers, and she whispers, “Yeah, and risk catching your cold? I love you, Kou, but no.” She pats him quickly on the cheek and pulls back.

Kou looks put out but gives in one last attempt. “You’re pretty.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Mabuchi Kou,” she says as she turns to the tray, ladling a bowl of clear broth from the pot.

“Aw, come on. Grant your sickly boyfriend a single kiss on his _birthday_. Just one measly kiss, please?”

Futaba glances sideways at him before blowing out the hair from her eyes tiredly. “Oh all right, but only after you’ve eaten.” With that, she orders him to sit up and sets the tray before him, holding out a spoon.

The boy grits his teeth suspiciously at the bowl, eyeing the chunks of green floating in the steaming liquid.

“This… this has _celery_ in it, doesn’t it?” He cringes visibly at the word.

“Maaaaybe,” she sings.

“Are you trying to kill me, woman?”

She sighs and rests a hand on her hip. “Of course not. I’m trying to help you get better so I can do more of this.” She rips off the headband, tossing it to the side as she shakes out her hair seductively. She then kicks off her slippers and climbs on the bed, holding the tray up as she swings a leg over his thighs to straddle his hips, her weight pressing down where it matters and an expectant look on her face.

Kou sucks in a breath, then,

"Give me that spoon.”


End file.
